


Intelligence

by fengirl88



Series: Invasion [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Warning: Implied Incest, Warning: Implied Past Sexual Abuse, Warning: Traumatic Memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 06:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he'd said to John Watson when they first met, he worries about Sherlock.  Constantly.</p><p>Fifth in the Invasion series (Invasion; Reconnaissance; Reveille; Ambush); <strong>please note the warnings for implied incest, implied sexual abuse, traumatic memory</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Intelligence

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to blooms84, ginbitch and kalypso for beta wisdom, to machshefa for encouragement, and to marysutherland for many helpful suggestions about the trajectory of the story as a whole.

John Watson seems constrained, holding himself in check, Mycroft thinks. The sense of control is palpable, but there's also a feeling of anger, something violent and explosive not very far below the surface.

The man's not _armed_ , of course; he wouldn't have got past security if he had been. But Mycroft's seen the files, so he knows what John can do in unarmed combat. What he'd be able to do to him before Anthea could even make it through the door. He begins to wonder if it was a mistake to see John alone.

He'd assumed John's evident attachment to Sherlock would stop him from doing anything – regrettable. Anything that would put him behind bars, separate him from Sherlock. But if something has gone badly wrong with Sherlock – as it well might – that brake can't be relied on to work any more.

“What can I do for you, John?” he asks. Trying to sound calm, in control. Trying to ignore the look of disgust that crosses Watson's face when he uses his first name. Perhaps the informality was a mistake. It usually is, in Mycroft's experience. Even though convention dictates that calling your brother's partner Dr Watson constitutes a slight in itself.

“Is my brother–”

It shouldn't be this difficult to ask if Sherlock's drug habit has returned, should it? Which would surely be the obvious explanation of John's request for an interview.

He tries again: “Has Sherlock – done something to give you cause for concern?”

There's a long pause before John says, heavily, “In a way. Though it's not what _he's_ done that I'm here about.”

Mycroft feels a prickle of sweat, sudden and sharp in his armpits. The expression on John's face is frankly unnerving. Heaven knows what Sherlock has been fabricating _now_.

“I do assure you, Dr Watson,” he says, in his most reasonable voice, “that whatever Sherlock may have told you to the contrary, my actions have always been prompted only by concern for his welfare.”

It's quite a tally, over the years. Making the minor drugs charges go away; making sure they never became major ones. Organizing one detoxification clinic stay after another and watching them all fail, because as Sherlock rightly said, there is always _someone_ who will give you what you want, even in a place like that, if you're willing to pay the price for it. All that furious ingratitude and blame, as if it was _his_ fault Sherlock had taken to drugs in the first place. Trying to find a way to keep him safe, keep him out of trouble, as he'd promised Mummy he always would.

As he'd said to John Watson when they first met, he worries about Sherlock. Constantly.

Or he used to. Since John's advent, he'd almost begun to believe that perhaps he could afford to relax his perpetual vigilance. Sherlock hadn't given up his dangerous pursuits, but there had seemed to be a blessed core of stability in his life now, in the form of this man.

This man currently looking at him as if he'd like to rip out Mycroft's entrails and strangle him with them.

He should have known it wasn't safe to stop worrying about Sherlock. Even for a moment.

The silence in the room goes on for a very long time. John looks as if he doesn't trust himself to speak, as if speaking might unleash whatever violence he's trying so hard to keep under control.

Mycroft tries another tack: “I take it Sherlock doesn't know you're here?”

The message had indicated it was a private matter, so he's surprised when John grins unpleasantly and says “Oh, he does _now_.”

Mycroft hadn't even been thinking of using Sherlock's ignorance to exert pressure on John – how could he, when he still has no idea what the visit is about? But there is no point in feeling aggrieved about that trivial misunderstanding when the man is clearly labouring under a much more dangerous misapprehension.

“Good, good,” he says, aware that it probably isn't the right thing to say; but then he has no notion what the right thing _is_ in the circumstances.

John takes a deep breath and says something so unexpected Mycroft wonders for a moment if he's misheard.

“I think Sherlock was sexually abused as a child. And I think you know something about it.”

 

 _Sexually abused_. Is that what they're calling it these days? Mycroft grimaces.

A voice from the past echoes in his head: _Have a word with your brother, Holmes, there's a good chap. Wilson tells me he's **this** close to becoming the house tart, and he's a bit young for that_. Jamieson, the housemaster at his old school. Mycroft had just about managed not to call him Sir while agreeing to talk to Sherlock; he'd had a sinking feeling about the whole business that was more than justified in the event.

Sherlock at thirteen, Mycroft at twenty. Sherlock dazzlingly beautiful, unscarred by the onset of puberty; Mycroft at his heaviest, awkward, undesirable, or so he'd thought till he met Frank. He'd been nervous about bringing Frank home with him for the vacation, and rightly so.

Mummy had been no problem; well, Mummy didn't really _care_ , as Mycroft had known for some time. No point in grieving about that. But Sherlock had been – altogether too interested. Getting any privacy was almost impossible, given his apparently unerring instinct for the worst moment to burst in on the two of them. Mood successfully ruined, he'd retreat, giggling madly. And his ability to find excuses to lean over Frank or lunge across him, reaching for something he could perfectly well have got up to fetch, or just _asked_ for, also seemed to be limitless.

Mycroft had tried to tackle him about Jamieson's warning. And that had gone about as badly as it possibly could.

“Silly old fart,” Sherlock had said, “what business is it of his?”

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft protested, “he's your housemaster and you're thirteen, of course it's his business.”

“It's no worse than what you're doing with Frank,” Sherlock said slyly. “Which is illegal, isn't it? What's the difference?”

No good telling Sherlock that the law was – in this respect at least – an ass.

“Sherlock, I'm only concerned for your welfare,” he said feebly. “You know I promised Mummy I'd always look after you.”

Why that should provoke Sherlock to blazing fury Mycroft didn't know.

“If you drag Mummy into this I'll tell about you and Frank.”

“Mummy _knows_ , Sherlock.”

“Not _Mummy_ ,” Sherlock said contemptuously. “I'll tell the police. Anonymously.”

“I'm nearly twenty-one, they won't be interested.” Hearing his voice shake, just the same.

“Then I'll tell them Frank did things to me,” Sherlock said. “They'll be interested in that all right. I could make it quite plausible, you know.”

Mycroft knew. From what Jamieson had said, Sherlock wasn't just on the verge of becoming the house tart. His reputation was raising eyebrows all over the school that usually stayed put.

A lesson Mycroft learned early: recognizing defeat when it was staring you in the face. He'd retreated in some disarray and left Sherlock to his own devices.

 

“Thirteen isn't exactly _childhood_ , is it?” he says. “And I do assure you that Sherlock at thirteen was more than capable of looking out for himself.”

Watson's face darkens and his fists clench.

“Thirteen? That's not what it sounded like to me.” Then, surprisingly, he says “ _I don't want to. I don't want to. Leave me alone or I'll tell_.”

Mycroft stares at him, nonplussed.

“Ring any bells, Mycroft?” John says harshly. “I thought it might.”

 _Dear God_. Mycroft's stomach lurches. He thinks he might be about to be sick, wills himself to breathe deeply until the impulse passes.

“You think that _I_ –”

He can't finish the sentence. It's just as well he's already sitting down. He presses his handkerchief against his mouth as another wave of nausea hits him.

John is staring at him, cold and hard. The stare of a man expecting to be lied to now, looking for the signs of it.

“In answer to your implied question,” Mycroft says with an effort, “no. No, I did not abuse my brother. Sexually or in any other way.”

It feels like hours, but it can only be minutes. Watson's gaze fixed on him, searching, unrelenting. The silence presses down like a weight on the back of Mycroft's neck till he longs to bury his face in his hands. He daren't do that, of course; it would look like guilt. And he's not going to give this man any encouragement to go on thinking what he's clearly already been thinking for days.

He's not sure what his face is showing, but clearly _something_ must have got through to Watson. Because he looks as if the ground's just given way beneath his feet, or as if he's tried to sit on a chair that isn't there. Mycroft tries not to think about what that look means, about why Watson had obviously been so sure he was the one who'd abused Sherlock. The sequence of thoughts is so clear that Watson might as well be shouting: _It wasn't you? **Not** you – fuck – **who** then_? He looks baffled, punch-drunk; obviously keyed himself up for this confrontation and now it's all still unresolved.

“What made you think–” Another sentence Mycroft can't finish. His voice sounds rusty. He tries again: “What happened?”

At first he thinks there's not going to be an answer. The look on Watson's face now is one Mycroft's seen before, though not often. Caused it, too, when he had to, when his duty demanded it, though he wouldn't sleep well afterwards. Not by his own actions, of course; but he'd given the orders just the same.

Watson's voice when he speaks matches his face; the words sound as if they're being torn out of him.

“We were – in bed – and I did something that – must have triggered it. A sort of fugue state,” he says. “He said – those words, but it wasn't his voice, it was – a boy's voice, a child's voice. I couldn't make him hear me.”

His knuckles are white and he's shaking.

“I thought – I thought I'd lost him. He was like that for a long time.”

“Did he say anything?” Mycroft asks. “Afterwards, I mean.”

John shakes his head. “He didn't remember any of it. He – he didn't believe me at first when I told him about it.”

Mycroft doesn't touch people. And it certainly wouldn't be a good idea to touch John Watson right now. But the impulse is surprisingly strong. Something must show in his face because John scowls.

Better not to say anything, Mycroft thinks. He waits. He's good at waiting.

He watches John's expression change from _Don't you dare pity me_ to something more difficult to read.

“What I want from _you_ –” John says eventually.

“Name it,” Mycroft says.

John gives him a long look, gauging whether he means it. Obviously decides he does.

“Everyone it might have been. Everyone who could have had that kind of access to him. Names and addresses.” He stops again, looks Mycroft right in the eye and says “And then I need you to look the other way.”

Mycroft swallows hard. “I think I can do better than that,” he says.

John looks grimmer even than before, a thing Mycroft would have said wasn't possible. “That won't be necessary,” he says.

“Nevertheless,” Mycroft says. “I couldn't just – stand back.”

Watson tries to stare him down but this time Mycroft's not budging.

“I promised our mother, you see,” Mycroft says. “She made me promise I would – always look after him.”

 _Didn't do a very good job, did you?_ He doesn't say it but it hangs in the air between them.

“When was that?” John's voice is flat, neutral; Mycroft gets that sense of violence held in check again.

“After our father's funeral,” Mycroft says. “I was fifteen, and Sherlock was eight.”

John's head jerks back as if he's been punched.

“Sherlock was eight?”

It means something to him, something Mycroft doesn't know yet and is suddenly afraid to know.

“What did your father die of?” John asks.

The answer to that question is buried so long and so deep Mycroft hadn't expected ever to need it again.

 _Just try to forget about it now, darling. Promise me. Doesn't do any good to dwell on these things_.

The other promise he'd made that day, and done his best to keep.

Now he says “It was a shooting accident. I was away at school, had to come home for the funeral. They wouldn't let me see him.”

John's staring at him, he knows that, but Mycroft can't really see his face properly.

“Where was Sherlock?”

“At home,” Mycroft says. He feels cold and dizzy; there's a ringing in his ears.

“Were there – witnesses?” John asks.

“To the accident? They said not,” Mycroft says. “Sherlock–”

“Sherlock what?” John says tightly.

“Sherlock found him,” Mycroft says. “That's what Mummy said.”

They sit there in silence for a while. He's not sure what John's thinking, but the thought in his own mind is one he hasn't allowed himself to contemplate for over twenty years.


End file.
